Bread and Chocolate
by breadandchoc
Summary: Drabble & series collection. Hero worship is only obsession in disguise. Drabbles based off various theme sets.
1. 50lovequotes: 12

_This series will be based on various list of themes and so forth. The drabbles do not necessarily have to link to the theme in anyway; my mind doesn't want to oblige, it seems. Warnings of OOC for all. Thanks for all feedback._

_50lovequotes: #12: Faith is believing in something when common sense tells you not to._

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On the fourth day, Mrs. Bucket realized Wonka was a retard.

It was simple and clear and obvious once she thought about it— a rock glass candy caught in her throat, a winter-air sting in her eyes in that short, furtive visit outside the factory's walls.

She was not made to be grown and tamed in a jar, to be crafted among the pretty, useless eye candy made on one man's whim. There was magic, and then there was _magic_-- yet for all the art and glazed dreams in delicate swirls of frosted ice, for all the wild, rapturous explosions of laymen's alchemy in luxurious gallons of rich flavour, for all the imagination and terrified wonder and silvertongued wonkawonka_wonka_ in the world--- she would not trade it for that quiet elation of everyday miracles, the simple satisfaction of merely _being_. Inconsequential , foolish existence, maybe, but at least she owed it to nobody.

But Wonka mixed coca and milk and packaged out love wrapped in cheap foil, and the world and _her_ world loved him for that. There was something to be said in sending out little bars of your soul everyday in the world when you knew little boys like Augestus Gloop would put their dirty, greedy hands on it and guzzle it down without seeing the beauty of it all, without caring for your toil and determination and sad hope trapped in sticky chocolate. It took a special kind of stupidity and obstinacy to price and sell bits of yourself day after day after day and keep doing it till _someone_ in the vast, uncaring world cared enough to take your life away for once and for all.

But that, that was all fine. Wonka was not her child.

Charlie was.

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	2. 30Kisses: 8

_Thanks for all the feedback. :)_

_30Kisses: #8 : Our own world_

>>

>>

Someone at school asks you what Willy Wonka, Amazing Chocolateer is like.

You pause in your hamburger, half-dizzy in the stupidly happy haze of real bread and real meat and actual _taste._

Willy Wonka? It is impossible to explain Willy Wonka, this strange and wild man that the English language can not define. He is a feeling more than anything else; not your father or brother or even your best friend- it had just been seven weeks, fifteen days and already he is interwoven into your very soul, this indescribable joy that wells up in your throat in the least expected moments.

You want to say simply: you love him, this is who he is- your hero and your idol and you're not ashamed of it. He can be cruel and childish and deliberately obtuse at times, but he is your future because he saved you and he protected you and your family when no one else would and you will never forget that. You want to try: he is quicksilver, an impossibility, a genius, a grown child, a puzzle and a completion in his own right and therefore misunderstood. That no, the media is wrong again, he is not _evil_ or _good_ or even the line between genius and sanity—he is just more important than all that… that _twaddle_ and certainly more than a snappy headline.

You even want, in a hungry, hopeless attempt to pin down the intangible, to sit him down and force this boy, this stranger from your past to listen, listen, _listen_. _There are moments of speechlessness we share,_ you long to whisper, a hushed voice of excitement and solemn conspiracy, _across vast tubs of swirling velvet, in the crafted sunset of impossible greens and cascading dreams. These are silent, grasping conversations that thicken the air where we swallow the words that won't do and say_: I believe_ and _they will never understand us_ and _who cares?_—all those nonsensical things that really matter. And they are true and simple and honest and it is in that moment, that…clarity that I believe I could die of aching happiness, of belonging. It is those moments that are real, that is right, that _is_… and you must understand this, or at least pretend to because this is who I am now; I don't care if you or the world think he is mad or a monster or a mastermind—he is who is he is and I will be blind to all that and be _glad _for it. _

You want to spread the good news of your saviour.

It is a foolish gripping of the heart and it passes over quickly; having taken too long in agonizing over the answer you are literally saved by the bell, and the boy-- this once-friend-- is already turning away to join the reluctant trudging of the masses back to class.

He tells you to _tell me later_ though you privately think that is impossible to ears half-deaf with cynicism, and there is a strange mixture of pity and pride and regret in watching this boy who will never understand walk away from you.

There is even a brief, sharp tang of relieved shame, because the world isn't ready for passionate sincerity waxed eloquent- it embarrasses people, this genuine-ness- and you had been on the verge of making a fool of yourself, which is strange since aren't you the luckiest boy in the world and doesn't mean what other people think doesn't matter anymore, least of all those you barely know? Why should you care what they think, when they care so little for you?

Dimly, a part of you acknowledges you're starting to think like Mr. Wonka. You hadn't thought it would start this soon.

Your burger is cold and chokes in your throat. You throw it in the bin on your way up and wipe the grease on the seat of your trousers, feeling guiltily luxurious in excessive waste.

Tomorrow, the rumor mill will have gained enough momentum to spin out tales of truth, and _then_ the impossible questions and staring will start.

Briefly, inanely-you wonder if cue cards will help. _I am seven and heir to the greatest dream-maker on earth, _you should write in silly, solemn letters,_ and I will not fail him._

Like most truths, it is childish and serious all at once, and you are old enough to realize that that is also a commodity the world does not like.

>>


	3. Twenty Three Oh Six: First Cold

_Thank you for getting this far. You could say this entire account is experimental. To clarify, this is non-yaoi; near everything I write will always be non-yaoi.  
__This is based off no theme set; it is a whim I am literally making up as I go along, so warnings of heavy OOC, AU and minimal sense. This is just as likely to be continued as it is not. _

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When Charlie wakes up, it is like any other day.

His toes curl from the chill of the floor when he pulls himself out of bed, into the cold, crisp bathroom and out again into colder, sharper _outside_ air where every breath is knives in his lungs.

He has long found it easier to deal with the day one step at a time, preferably without thinking too much.

There is no need to look at the calendar with its simple, damning circles in two careless loops around Today; he has the date inscribed in his very being till sometimes he finds himself writing the numbers out in the street dust when he is bored, in the windowpanes from fingerprint smears, when picking out new numbers for angelic old ladies who corner him into giving them lotto numbers because he is a _lucky boy_, _sweet boy_. Down, boy.

2306. Twenty three O Six.

He breathes.

He swings by the Place on his way to the park, where Willy is apparently not eating again. Charlie promises to bring some scrumpulicious fudge the next time he swings around (this afternoon, or the guilt will be insidious tonight) -though haha, no he doesn't actually have spare to hand around. Sorry, sorry, girls- and is out off the white doors under fifteen minutes.

The girls fondly think he is a little thick on the uptake; he encourages this by investing in shy, hopeful smiles whenever he can and focusing on his limiting his vocabulary to one-syllable words. Willy had taught him how underestimation could be as useful as true genius-- when you exceed everyone's expectations it already fulfils the definition itself-- and Charlie had rarely forgotten anything Willy said. He'd clung on to his every word when he was younger- a childish delight from repeating his hero's whims as mantras and getting high on infatuation with a _whole new world_ and basically, being painfully, embarrassingly grateful to the man who saved his future.

Actually, Charlie can't see how that latter bit is different to now, except he has long forgotten how to be embarrassed.

When he steps into the park, the serenity hits him in the chest, a surreal blow that leaves his ears ringing with the rustle of the breeze through rasping branches and the silent vegetative awareness peculiar to half-dead trees. He walks briskly, leaving dragon's breath in his wake- a snail's trail of puffing white clouds that swirled into nothingness like Wonka's FireBreath Snozzdrops, Trial version iv _(after tea)._

Charlie is aware his thought processes are not the socially accepted belief of 'normal'; his imagery alone often garners him strange looks and furtive shifting when he speaks aloud without meaning to.

… socially accepted belief. Mental apostrophes. _Right._ He needs to stay in more.

He passes his 'Lil patch o' Paradise without stopping today. There are more important things at hand, for once. For the billionth time, Charlie wishes he could beat down that artistically weathered sign over his land and take satisfaction in scratching several nice, deep grooves into that corny, stupid line. 'Lil patch o' Paradise? What was this, some kind of cheap fair stall?

It had angered him when they'd first presented the sign, a cold fury starting deep inside a place he'd long forgotten. _How dare they_, it whispered, _how dare they judge me. This is ours, how dare they label and fence and expose what is ours? How _dare_ they!_

How dare they. Maybe because_ they_ were no longer the faceless mob but a kind mayor and a head park gardener who was an ex-Wonka fan but hadn't believed the rumors - good, trusting men, both of them- and who had allowed him to be the part-time gardener in a remote little corner of nowhere-park. The feelings are just mind memory that's all, like muscle memory, he'd told himself. This is a privilege, not a right, he'd reminded himself.

Many things in his life were privileges, not rights, nowadays. But that was the same for most people, wasn't it?

Charlie remembers he needs to stop introspecting thing so much; he'll end up looking at things through the end of some clichéd beer bottle if he wasn't careful.

He reaches the graves, finally. He lays down the flowers carefully, a glistening, thick bouquet bursting with vibrancy and colour, life coated in smug dew-drops and darkening away the frost glazed over the carved stone.

Good money he'd paid for this, this over-priced bunch of vegetation that he could have easily whipped up in his own 'Lil patch o' Paradise'. But unlike the 'thought that counts', Charlie prefers thought _over-priced_ that counted better. Giving clumsily self-made presents because they were too poor, then over-indulgent self-made presents because there were always newer, _you're-the-first-one-to-eat-them!_ edible alchemy Willy and him were whipping up back then—for once, Charlie wants to give a cliché, something _bought_ with money he is really _earning_ and a gift justified by a history of poetry and symbolized meanings. Like flowers.

The said flowers squashed at the bottom looks to be wilting slightly from the cold.

'Hullo, mum. Dad, grandpa George, grandma Jo, grandpa Joe, grandma Georgina. How are you today?'

Charlie pauses politely. 'I'm fine, as usual. Mr Wonka asks how you're doing.'

A lie, of course, but only a little white one. 'My garden is going pretty well, even with the kids running about and all that. Sometimes I wish I started further away from the park's entrance- more and more people seem to be coming to look at the damn- sorry, mum!- the darn flowers and bush shapes and whatnot. You think maybe I shouldn't have modeled it after the Choc room so much?'

The graves stare back, blankly indifferent. The inscriptions on mum's and grandma Georgina's tombstones are eroding away, and ice has formed in the cracks. By autumn, it'd melt away but the damage of expansion would have already been done, reducing his nights of carvings and tears into ugly, meaningless spider-cracks crawling over flat stone. Maybe he should have gotten a professional to do them. Maybe he should have done a lot of things.

Charlie sighs and watches the white mist curl up again. Forces his eyes back down on the six grey slabs waiting in their eternal row.

'Anyway, I brought flowers.' God, he _hates_ this day, every year. It never fails. It is just so _stupid_. 'And I see you guys are doing fine.'

Stupid, stupid. 'I miss you,' he says, almost in afterthought. Then it all comes out, a torrent of bubbling, clumsy feelings like he knew it would-- 'So much, I miss you all so much. I love you all, you know? I need you guys now, and I _wish_—well, I wish you all just…'

But Charlie doesn't want them to come back, not now. Maybe he should feel guilty and sickened about it, but he doesn't even feel guilty or sickened that he doesn't feel guilty and sickened. How many times had he felt grateful, bitterly, gladly grateful that they weren't here to see him? To see what he'd done?

Stupid, stupid, stupid. It is all his fault. All his fault.

'I'll see you guys tomorrow.' He brushes his pants as he gets up, a futile action of habit since his jeans' knee are already permanently stained patches of earth. Seems this year official visit is going to be much shorter then usual, but he can always make up for it tomorrow. Tomorrow, when he doesn't feel obliged to talk to the air and can argue, converse, persuade, confess and rage in the silent confines of his head, filling the air with impossible conversations and all their voices instead of feeling like a fool talking out loud to himself.

Charlie isn't delusional; dead was dead is dead and he'd come to terms with it six years ago.

_Oh, Charlie…_

_We're always here for you, boy-o._

'See you tomorrow,' he says firmly.

_Don't let us down, now._

Too late for that, now.

---

The Room is freezing. He thinks he should be used to this by now, but he isn't.

'A visitor, a visitor! No one has come!' Willy giggles, an obscene sound. 'Hullo, Mister Nobody,' he bows low and mocking as Charlie approaches, 'Who art thou, so fair and young?'

'I'll leave you to it, Mr. Bucket.' The nurse is brisk and kind- as almost all of them are- and smiles as she closes the door. Almost all of them have a soft spot for him, this _poor boy, too bad he's a little dense, eh? _

The soft sniffling stops almost as soon as the door clicks shut, and Willy's eyes are clearer and harder when Charlie turns back.

'Looking old as ever, boy' he starts without preamble, and turns away. 'Two visits in a day? I must be so lucky.'

Charlie's hands are cold and clammy, he resists the urge to blow warm breath on them. 'Mr Wonka,' he says by way of greeting, 'I'm sorry.'

The extra- scrumpulicious double-choc and caramel fudge is out of his pocket and placed on the table, the signature gold and red raucous and out-of-place in its stark albino surroundings. Something catches in Charlie's throat- nostalgia, probably, or regret or shame or perhaps all, familiar friends all of them- but he chokes it back. Now is not the time.

Willy has wandered over to the window, a small square opening in this white box of a room, the only real opening of the world he once ruled. From there, he can see the sprawl of homes cluttering together like sulky children, a grey hand dividing them into _slum, middle-class, white-bread_ with its crooked fingers lined with streetlights and invisible, willing classification. The far edge of the Park can be seen, a hint of greenery peeking behind one thick bar if he cares enough to press his forehead against the far right of the window.

Charlie knows, he knows almost every edge and dust-bunny of Willy's room- the spot the sunlight falls on the most in the summer, where you're likely to stub your toe at if you're not careful, the hairline cracks in the ceiling the whitewash tries to obscure. He often comes in at sporadic times, determined to catch the room empty and the bed unslept, but from midnight to noon to dusk Willy is always there, a hard glint in his eye or curled under sheets.

Charlie is beginning to think Willy doesn't intend to come out at all, and that is both sickening and terribly reliving at once.

'Beautiful day ain't it, boy.'

Charlie grits his teeth, pretends not to hear the sly subtext. 'Very beautiful,' he agrees instead. 'It just started to snow last night, really. Did you catch the first snowdrift?'

Willy's hair brushes his collar as he spins round; Charlie's eyes are instantly attracted. 'Catch the first snowdrift? THE most magical time of the season?' He pauses. 'Of course not.'

The man jerks as if about to pounce, then stills again. His fingers tap-dance nervously on the wall behind, a silent foxtrot running up the sides of a minute crack like a pale spider. The window gives a hard silhouette to his face, both too familiar and alien at once to Charlie.

'Why don't you cut your hair?' Charlie finds himself asking suddenly. Pleading just a little, because dignity never did much good around Willy. 'Back to, you know, that old haircut you liked.'

Willy looks slyly at him, the side of his mouth lifting in a secretive smile, and presses one long finger to his lips. 'Why don't you just go away? Away to, you know, wherever I'm not.'

Charlie scowls. Cruel, spiteful Wonka. Wonderful, amazing Willy. Charlie wishes he could find some in-between, the person he'd fell in love with a million years ago, when both of them actually believed Charlie would stay young forever.

'I said I'm sorry already.' He sounds whiny even to his own ears, but he goes on anyway, hating himself. 'Don't do this today, please. _Please_. I'll do anything for you, you know I wil—'

'Please, heelp me help you, I'm so sorrrrrrrry Mr Candymaan...' Willy mocks, his eyes raking him hard and scornful. 'Saaaave me, Mister Wonka! I need you to save me again!' Willy scoffs, his equivalent of spitting. 'Listen to yourself, boy. No wonder my factory died.'

It has been long enough (18 months, 26 days, to be precise) but the guilt hits Charlie like bass to his stomach anyway, twisting and leaving him almost vomiting with self-loathing and terror. There is this distance between them, this white expense of too much floor and too many unspoken things screaming all the time. Charlie wants to scream, too. Loud enough so Willy would just _look_ at him again.

'You know I didn't mean it that way,' he manages to whisper, hopelessly. 'You know me.'

For a second, Charlie thinks- wishes?- his mentor's eyes soften, but it is just the soft light reflected in the dark irises, diluting indigo and forging pity. 'Yes,' Willy says simply instead, and turns his back to him again, facing the world through his little, barred window. 'I did, didn't I?'

And for some reason, it is those words that seem most brutal and truthful than anything Willy has said yet.

Everything is in past tense now, Charlie realizes, and he is on his knees, on his knees, _on his knees_ behind the man who had built this damn institute and took a lifetime reservation for this white room, who smiles and doesn't explain and tortures his days with guilt because _he_ knows Charlie knows he _it is his fault; all his fault_, who is cold and inhuman and Charlie's hero, always and forever.

'I'm sorry,' Charlie whispers again, but no one is listening.


	4. 52 flavours: 33

_Found this half-written while wandering through old files, couldn't resist reworking it.  
Thanks for the feedback.  
__  
52 flavours: #33: The opposite of faith_

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Charlie breaks down the first time Willy dies- he is a blubbering, terrified mess barely held together by a spider-web net of angry despair and grief so deep it numbs him for days on end. He is still feeling too young and too orphaned. The factory does not come to a halt, but it is a near thing: the oompa-loompas are not so much workers as integral _parts_ of the factory itself and they are coolly firm against Charlie's hysterical orders. This should be how we mourn, one of the younger ones tell Charlie later, but Charlie's grief had reached the stage of white-numbness and Charlie just clutched at Willy's cane, blank and bewildered. 

When Willy resurrects two weeks later, it takes a whole day before Charlie finds his voice again. In the meantime, his mentor roams his legacy, frowning at this and remarking at that and why on earth is our packaging all in black? Charlie, _really._

Charlie regains his voice. Screaming commences, solely on his part.

The second time, Charlie manages to hold himself together. Most of the time. Some of the time. Hope is terrible like that- the factory runs on without so much as a hiccup and Charlie memorizes the splay of shadowed cracks on his ceiling by the second night, wide-eyed in his bed. Boneless and all ragged angles at the same time. Straining and waiting all the time. It is the only thing that keeps him together, this brutality of hope; it drives him to the cutting edge of desperation and holds him back from silently going under, from caving into the devastating peace of despair. He throws himself into what is left of Willy – his factory, their factory, _Willy Wonka's_ factory- and is shivering miserably on the edge of a nervous breakdown when Willy resurfaces nineteen days later.

Willy purses his lips and frowns slightly when the chief oompa-loompa medic leans up to his ear and tells him Charlie hasn't slept properly in almost _all_ the time he's been gone. That he is _killing_ himself with waiting and they, the oompa-loompas, had been _very worried_ about the young master. That Charlie had even lost his appetite for _chocolate._

To which Willy had the audacity to cluck his tongue and close in on Charlie, concerned and mildly disapproving like an indulgent parent to a misbehaving child. Charlie's eyes are blurred with the salt-twist of rage and heartbreaking joy; he can't see very well, which is why the vicious swipe of his arms takes two tries before he manages to wrap himself around the man ina fierce, painful embrace. This time, there is no real yelling but a rush of quiet words in raw, ferventundercurrent: _this is not a game_,_ I am not your toy, _and_ do you **know** what you are doing to me? I know what you are doing, I know what you are trying to do, how dare you, how **dare **you- you- arrogant- manipulating—_and so on. Willy deftly counters this with a smattering of _I know_ and _Charlie, please_ and basically, Charlie later realizes, a lot of lingering eclipses leaving meaningful silences in the air which seem speak volumes while actually saying nothing at all.

The third time sparks more outrage than grief; the fourth drains away both insidious fear and Charlie's post-resurrection tirades. The sixth time is almost tolerable. Half-way through the seventh, Charlie is dismayed to find he is more resigned than anything else and is already starting to plan his schedule to the estimated reappearance, which durations span longer with each new death. The dark rings under his eyes start to fade and while Charlie misses him – of _course_ he misses him; he will always miss and seethe and forgive, of _course_-, his breath no longer chokes in his throat at odd times. He even learns how to laugh without Willy's presence.

By the fourteenth death, Charlie is amused to find that he has started an idle betting game on predicting how long Willy will stay dead this time. For a heartbeat, a strange panic suffocates him like a flash of illumination, an blinding dread of something impossible building up over these four years.But then he shakes it off, it is over, and when the twentieth time rolls round, Charlie is already an old hand at heading entirely new projects on his own. Already, he is too impatient to wait for Willy before transmuting their latest project of Edible Technology from blackboard to reality, but he's sure Willy wouldn't mind.

And though its strange how long Willy is taking this time (seventeen weeks? eighteen?) when the last time was only ten weeks, it is only a matter of time. Charlie almost starts to miss him properly, more than the usual vague sense of misplacment, but there's barely time to worry about that- not when there's so many ideas to experiment with these days, so many dreams to fufill, so many delights to conjure! After all, he has to hurry, hurry- no time to waste! If Willy has taught him one thing, its that there's always something to do- oompa-loompas to see, plans to build, worlds to organize...Hang on- strike that last bit, reverse.

Andanyway, he'll see Willy again, he always does. And even if distantly, hollowly, Charlie knows what Willy has done, it is too late: there is no grief, no anger, only patience born from too much waiting. Hero-worship finally dormant and treachorous beneath his ribs.

After all, Charlie has always been a devoted student and Willy has taught him well--this is only death, Charlie thinks numbly, and it happens all the time.

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_Another scrap found. Originally posted this as a seperate piece previously, but got it booted off by ffnet. But might as well hitch it to a legitmate fic. To clarify: all facts are fictional, unless depp!moviecanon says otherwise..  
__Thanks for all previous feedback for this, and any forthcoming. :)_

* * *

20 Facts about Willy Wonka

20) Willy's birth name is actually William. Willy was a nickname bestowed on him in finger-painting days, when boys with loud mouths still ruled his world. For some reason, it gave rise to snickers and jokes he didn't quite understand and almost-friendly (_friendly!)_ ribbing for one week- the longest amount of time William felt breathlessly accepted as one of them. They were wonderful, wonderful seven days till Monday came and the novelty wore off. The name never did.

19) On some days, he hated his dad and those braces and the stupid, stupid rules his dad laid out. Other days, Willy loved his dad and wished he would drop his dental practice so they could spend more time together. It got so confusing Willy laid out a weekly plan to arrange his thoughts (Mon, Wed, Fri: _hate dad_; Tues, Thurs, Sat: _love dad_) with Sunday left free to give himself a break.

18) Willy still has the plan, but now all the days have been crossed out with: He loves. Me. He figures that's all he needs to know to decide.

17) He still remembers the first time he fell in love. It was a chocolate Easter egg, wrapped in crinkly coloured aluminum and tasting like the ten cents it cost. Now, for every Valentine's Day, he gets himself a bag from the local mart.

16) Willy will never forget the first time he truly experienced raw, incredulous hatred. He had been livid: at the spies, the _damned_ thiefs that dared to call themselves his equals. The bleak despair of a failed dream- over, over, all_ over._ There is still a room he keeps- empty, eerily untouched- that he visits every anniversary to remind him of what nearly was.

15) Willy never had an actual apprenticeship or training. He was, however, the cleaner for a humble chocolate café for a year. On the other hand, the shop was located in Switzerland and was eternally competing for the 'Best Chocolate Shop' award in its district. It was a remarkably educational experience, and Willy has gained an eternal respect for kitchen washers ever since.

14) The Wonka family is of magic heritage, coincidentally. It is a vaguely embarrassing affliction, much like the distant side of the family who did _that_ in Ungora when on holiday that no one ever talks about.

13) However, it is admittedly useful in bringing many of his edible fantasies to life, or to be more specific, to reality. Willy takes guilty comfort in knowing his father never got round to controlling his power either, since he has noticed when he was young, there were occasions that a client might come out of the Room looking dazed, with teeth so perfect they _sparkled_ and his father in tow, looking mutely mortified.

12) Of course the oopa-loompas are not real people. They are _better_ than real people.

11) He really did know Charlie was going to win the game the moment he met all of them. At that moment, he just seemed the least of all snotty-nosed evils. There wasn't much competition, that's for sure.

10) But. Willy had not counted on Charlie being so… _Charlie_. For all his heady dreams of coca alchemy, his faith in the humanity had been digging new stops underground. Charlie did not prove him wrong, of course, but it at least convinced him that going up occasionally for some fresh air might not be such a terminal idea.

9) Willy is aware of a more colourful vocabulary (and all that implies) existing outside goshdarnit. He is coolly amused by those who believe him having a mind scarcely better than being infantile, and especially those who amiably refer to him as being so childlike. However, he is also a great subscriber to the benefits of underestimation.

8) Not even Charlie knows this, but as a sign of respect, the oompa-loompas have a tradition of generously inviting him into their families by allowing him the great privilege of introducing each new batch of adolescents to the grand wonders of Being An Adult and The Great Circle of Life. Generally, Willy dredges his memories for the 'Birds and the… Knees? Fees?' talk he was graced to several continents ago and rambles desperately for a few minutes while his pubescent (new) family stares up at him in solemn-eyed wonder. He really, really hopes Charlie's family will never ask the same of him.

7) Willy is a firm believer in experience being the greatest of all teachers. This is because aside from his dental care lessons, he has known no other.

6) Ever since Charlie and his family came to live with him, his therapist has been pleased to note that his bouts of forgetful repetition have been decreasing.

5) Ever since Charlie and his family came to live with him, his therapist has been pleased to note that his bouts of forgetful repetition have been decreasing.

4) He knows Charlie hero-worships him.

3) He knows he will never love Charlie or his family as much as Charlie loves him.

2) Willy is counting the days till Charlie realizes. He has not shoved something as precious as the Wonkavite in their faces for nothing; sooner or later, Charlie is bound to wonder. When one has created the philosopher's stone, mortality becomes a concept and the discovery of white hair reduced to the same level as running nose: both do not require heirs for remedies.

1) William Wonka does not believe the whole business with the golden tickets is one of his wisest decisions. But that doesn't mean it isn't one of his happiest.


End file.
